


Tiens-Moi Immobile

by Emery



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Psychological Trauma, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Sleep Deprivation, Sleepwalking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:02:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emery/pseuds/Emery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's no mystery that Will Graham is troubled, nearing the dangerous edge that won't be so easy to climb back up once he falls. What is a mystery is why, when Will finds himself at the end of his rope one night, no different than a stray dog blindly searching for help, he calls Dr. Hannibal Lecter on nothing but a desperate whim. As Will falls harder in more ways than one and Hannibal waits patiently to catch him, a simple midnight telephone conversation evolves into much more than either Will or Hannibal had ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is French for "Hold Me Still."  
> Also, this is my first (of many) Hannibal fics, so please let me know what I'm doing right or wrong. I welcome any constructive comments.

Will glanced at the digital clock at his bedside, its bright blue numbers almost blinding in the otherwise pitch darkness of the room. They read “12:04.” He had to be awake in less than seven hours. Seven measly hours of sleep when he felt like it would take a _coma_ for him to be well-rested. Sixty-two minutes and counting he had been laying in that bed and feeling the sharp springs dig into his spine. Sixty-two minutes and counting he hadn’t been able to make his thoughts stay still. If his mind was racing that fast, surely his body would be as well. The moment he fell asleep he would lose all control again, his body acting without permission and taking him to who-knew-where while his mind played cruel tricks on him and called him deeper into the impending darkness while his ability to make any conscious decision lay dormant and helpless beneath the uncomfortable veil that was sleep.

A frustrated growl let loose from Will’s throat that startled the dog who lay beside his bed, and the animal whined when its owner reached out angrily towards his bedside table in search of his phone.

He hated himself for having to do this, for being so weak and helpless. His dog’s nervous whine reminded him that he was not so different from the strays he often found on the road—alone, afraid, abandoned and willing to blindly follow anyone who would offer him a piece of food and a pat on the head, regardless of circumstances.

Dr. Lecter was used to receiving calls at his office, ever since his secretary had up and relocated to Europe—or so he told anyone who asked—but it was not Hannibal’s office phone which was ringing late that night. He heard the ringtone call out lightly to him from his bedroom, where he had last left the device before retiring into his home office in front of a warm fire, a glass of wine and book of classic French poetry in hand. That particular collection had been one of his favorites ever since his education in Paris as a boy, and Hannibal was of firm belief that every piece of poetry, especially poetry of such merit as the volume he held in his hand, deserved frequent re-reading and consideration. It never ceased to amaze him how the subtext of a single line could change its shape so many times, a true reflection of his mood or other extenuating circumstances surrounding each read.

People were not so different from poetry in that regard. It was common for Hannibal’s opinion of a person to grow and develop if someone captured his interest for long enough. One such example was Will Graham, the troubled profiler who had come to trust Hannibal perhaps a little _too_ much, as of late, though the psychiatrist couldn’t say that he minded. It was Will’s name that displayed itself on Hannibal’s cell phone, flashing on the screen like a distant call for help, and of course Dr. Lecter couldn’t help but answer. Just as poetry grew in significance with every read and every understanding of an additional nuance or play on words, so had Will grown in his mind as a man full of secrets and hidden truths.

It was difficult to tell, but the odd feeling that rested in the pit of Hannibal’s stomach when he answered the phone may have been something like worry.

“Will,” he said simply. He spoke calmly into the phone, a great contrast to Will’s obviously troubled speech.

“Hello, doctor. I didn’t wake you, I hope.” Even over the phone, Hannibal read Will like an open book. He was nervous and afraid of many things, the doctor’s potential wrath at being awakened being one.

Hannibal was quick to dispel that particular fear when he answered, “No, not at all. It is late, though. Is everything all right?”

“When is anything all right?” Will answered and immediately regretted his words. “I’m sorry, I—“

“No apologies needed, Will. Was there something you needed?”

Will blinked as he lay on his back in the darkness of his bedroom, phone to his ear and lips parted though without any words to speak. Why _had_ he called Hannibal? What _did_ he need? The questions were too difficult to answer on his own. Was that why he had called? Answers? Was that all he needed or was there something so much more?

“Will?”

“I’m here.” The answer was quick, defensive almost, as if Will was too desperate for his psychiatrist to know of his presence.

Hannibal said nothing more. It was apparent that Will had something to say and, just as he did with all of his patients, he would wait until Will was able to say it. Phone to his ear and eagerly awaiting Will’s words—or was it only his voice that Hannibal wanted to hear?—he sauntered slowly, deliberately back into his study and lowered himself into the high-backed leather chair in front of the fire. Only silence greeted him from Will’s end of the phone, and the crackling of the flames in the stone fireplace echoed throughout the eerie silence of the darkened room.

Will, too, heard the tell-tale sounds of a fire from Hannibal’s home, and in their uncomfortable yet understood silence he imagined the doctor sitting beside it, serene as always, the flickering oranges and reds bouncing off the sharp planes of his face and gleaming in his eyes always so full of sympathy and wisdom. It was a sight more handsome than Will cared to admit.

“I can’t sleep,” he said.

The suddenness of the words aroused Hannibal from the sleepy haze he had fallen into, but he answered as expertly as usual.

“Is it that you cannot sleep or that you don’t want to sleep?”

Will pondered. “Both.”

“You’re afraid to sleep.”

“My feet are still sore from my last walk down the highway, Dr. Lecter. I’d rather not take another one.”

Hannibal’s lips nearly curled into a grin hearing Will’s sarcasm. That was a trait about the man that he always enjoyed, when Will chose to display it.

“I could prescribe medications for sleeping, strong enough that you wouldn’t move an inch from your bed—“

Will sighed.

“—but I believe we both know that’s not what you need.”

“Then what _do_ I need, doctor?” Will’s frustration was becoming more and more apparent through the forcefulness of his words and the speed of his responses. He launched upwards in his bed because there was too much _energy_ flowing through him to lie still any longer. Perhaps that was the cause of his sleepwalking problem, as well. Perhaps his mind just never stopped working, never stopped killing, and in the depth of REM sleep his body knew no other way to cope.

Hannibal sensed Will’s frustration, and in a strange way, it pleased him. He enjoyed observing Will struggling to work through his problems, very unlike the way he often grew bored of his other patients. Will was different, intelligent, and driven, and Hannibal knew that he enjoyed the man’s mental battle because he knew, somehow, that Will would conquer the issues he faced. He was too smart and too strong to let these horrors get the best of him, and even if Will didn’t know that much about himself, Hannibal intended to show him one way or another.

“We both know, Will, that what you need is up to you to determine. I can do nothing but be a source of stability while you solve the puzzle on your own.”

“I think I need a straightjacket,” Hannibal heard Will murmur just loudly enough to be audible, and he couldn’t help but smile again.

“You’re not crazy, Will.”

“I feel like I am.”

“We all do, at some time or another.”

A second long silence followed, and Hannibal found himself listening carefully to Will’s breathing, hopeful that it would grow as deep and rhythmic as it needed to sound for sleep. Instead it remained too quick, too shallow and afraid. Hannibal _almost_ pitied him.

 _This is insane_ , Will thought. _Every last thing about this is utterly insane. Why did I call him in the first place? Why am I still on the phone with him?_

A rustling of sheets met Hannibal’s ear and he was pleased to know that Will had at least laid down again, though if the amount of noise was any indication, he was having quite the difficult time getting comfortable.

“I’m going to go, Dr. Lecter. I’m sorry for calling so late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Not if you sleep through your appointment again.” The comment had been an attempt at a lighthearted joke, but Will replied more defensively than Hannibal had expected.

“I said I was sorry.”

“And I said no apologies needed.” Really, the man apologized too much—likely a mild result of his paranoia and social anxiety. “I’m staying on the phone with you, Will, until you fall asleep.”

“What if I hang up on you?”

“That would be rude, Will.” A pause, though short this time. “I would call you back.”

Hannibal’s eyes were glued to the dying fire before him. The room had grown noticeably dimmer, and the crackling of the wood as it splintered and gave way beneath the terrifying force of the heat had reduced itself to only the occasional pop or spark, yet Hannibal made no move to rekindle the flames or even move from his seat. A half-finished glass of red wine rested on the small round table beside him, along with the book of poetry he had been reading, open with pages facing down to mark his place. He wondered vaguely if Will had an appreciation for literature besides the psychology and criminology articles he studied on a daily basis to assist with his lecturer position at the FBI Academy.  He wondered what kinds of wine Will preferred, or if it was only whiskey that he drank every night before bed.

He would help Will solve his problems, Hannibal promised himself. He would do all he could both tonight, the following evening during their appointment, and beyond. If he had to be on the phone with Will every night, he would, and he wouldn’t be satisfied until he heard those comfortable, trusting breaths which came with restful sleep from Will’s end of the phone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal and Will's telephone conversation continues as progress and plans are made. Will realizes that the psychiatrist may be his only hope if he ever wishes to truly recover from the visions that plague him, and Hannibal finds himself caring more than he ever thought himself capable of.

Half an hour had passed, and Will had neither fallen asleep nor hung up the phone. Hannibal knew, of course, that his patient was still awake, lying in his bed with thoughts racing a thousand miles per hour in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He was likely surrounded by at least a few of those dogs of his, and the doctor could just imagine the way Will lay in bed, on his back, one hand keeping the phone pressed tightly to his ear and the other rubbing his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose, massaging his temple—anything to get the headaches to go away. Will was a pitiful creature, really, one in need of dire help. Hannibal could only hope that he would be the one able to provide it.

“Talk to me.” The words came so suddenly from Will’s mouth that, after such a long period of silence, they sounded foreign to him. Had he actually spoken? Or was he caught up in some strange world that lay between dreaming and waking? Or, more accurately in Will’s case, between _nightmares_ and waking.

Hannibal, on the other hand, remained as calm and collected as usual. He had grown a bit drowsy in the high-backed leather chair in front of a now-nonexistent fire, had long ago finished his glass of wine, but the sound of Will’s voice did not startle him. In fact, he had been expecting it for some time.

“What do you want me to say?”

Will’s frustration made itself known through the heavy sigh, the stammering, the rustling of his bed sheets as he shifted uncomfortably and sat up again in his bed. “I-I don’t know, doctor. Tell me a bedtime story for all I care.”

 _Just please don’t make me listen to silence anymore._ Will heard things in the silence—things he didn’t like, things that called him deeper into the abyss he so desperately was trying to avoid every night. His nightmares knew him by name, now, and he was not so eager to indulge their fancies by acknowledging their invitations.

“It is my job to listen, not to speak.”

“Talking’s not something you’re good at?”

Hannibal blinked, the motion making little difference in his vision. The backs of his eyelids were only barely darker than the room in which he sat, but the difference between Hannibal and Will was that the psychiatrist felt anything but helpless in the dark. Instead, he felt _empowered._

“That’s not exactly it. But as my patient, I feel that—“

“I thought we were only having conversations.”

Hannibal’s lips twitched—almost a smile. “Fair enough, Will. A conversation. What would you like to discuss?”

“It’s up to you.”

Will wasn’t getting Hannibal’s point.

“You’re giving a lecture tomorrow. Perhaps you should be thinking less about discussion and more about sleeping.”

And Hannibal wasn’t getting Will’s point.

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“You need to.”

“I think we’ve been through this.”

“Indeed we have.”

Thus the beginning of another drawn-out silence.

 _Godammit, Doctor, I just want to hear your voice._ Will wanted so badly to speak his thoughts aloud, but if the thought sounded so idiotic in his head, there was no way he would be able to say it smoothly aloud. Hannibal would laugh at him, even if not outwardly. It would complicate the therapy sessions and it might put an end to their conversations altogether. Hannibal would misread him, psychoanalyze the misreading—their attempt at a friendship wouldn’t be the same.

Was it friendship that Will wanted?

More?

“What do you think about before you go to sleep, Will?”

A question wasn’t what Will wanted, but he supposed it was better than another half hour of silence and restlessness.

“What I always think about. I can’t get those things out of my head.”

Hannibal knew exactly which things Will meant. He wouldn’t push the issue and force Will to talk about the visions that would only drag him closer to the edge, especially not before sleep—that was what their therapy sessions were for. Hannibal could imagine Will’s face and how his expression would have looked that moment, his eyes wide and unseeing in the dark bedroom, shifting from one wall to another in expectation of catching a fleeting glimpse of a tell-tale shadow while his ears worked so hard to pinpoint the sound of breathing or a snapped twig that they betrayed him and created frightening sounds of their own. Will was likely not living in reality, that night, but that wasn’t so uncommon as of late. The man had begun to create a world all his own ever since the day he killed the father of Abigail Hobbes—and subsequently tried to become her father instead.

Will had never been safe in his own mind, where most people retreated for security in times of trouble. Will had no safe haven to run to when the trials of the world were too much. The inner workings of his brain were dangerous, and now that he couldn’t keep still at night, the real world was not so safe for him, either. Surrounded on all sides by evil temptation, he was crumbling beneath the pressure of Jack Crawford’s demands and the public’s ridicule of his supposed insanity.

He was not safe, under fire from the media’s attacks. He was not safe from the callousness of Jack’s tyranny. Hannibal knew what it felt like to be unsafe, and he knew that someone like Will Graham did not deserve the peril he was trapped within.

“Tomorrow is Friday, Will. You have no obligations the following day, do you?”

Will swallowed hard and had to rouse himself from the trance he had fallen into, a place where he killed again and again, his victims only coming back to life to be ripped apart by bullets from the gun in Will’s hands—his finger couldn’t stop pulling the trigger.

“Ah, no, I don’t. Unless I end up on another date with one of the Ripper’s victims.”

“Then why don’t you come over for dinner tomorrow evening, after our appointment. You’re my last appointment of the night, and I have yet to find the opportunity to cook for you.”

Will sighed, loudly enough for Hannibal to hear. “I’ve told you before that I wouldn’t make a very good dinner guest.”

“That was at a dinner party, Will, which I can assure you is much different than simply enjoying a meal by ourselves.”

Hesitance. But he was considering. Mistrust?

“Thank you, Dr. Lecter, but it’s a long drive home and—“

“You’re welcome to stay with me, if you’re truly worried about driving late. I’m afraid I must insist. A change of scenery for the weekend might do your mind some good. Perhaps you could even catch yourself up on sleep.”

Will could not, _would not_ , let Hannibal know in any way, shape, or form that he was excited to receive such an invitation. Hannibal was right—a change of pace would be good for him. Hannibal was one of the only people who came even close to understanding him. There was, of course, Alana Bloom, but Will knew of her hesitance to get too close to him. He had noticed immediately her unwillingness to be alone with him. Was it fear that prompted such behavior? There was no telling what kinds of thoughts Jack had put into her mind about him. Hannibal, on the other hand, seemed to be the only one willing to discount anything that came from Crawford’s mouth, or anyone’s mouth, really. Hannibal thought entirely for himself, and Will liked that, if only for the reason that the doctor had formed his own opinions of Will unmarred by office talk and articles on TattleCrime.com.

Hannibal was willing to be alone with him.

Hannibal _enjoyed_ being alone with him, or so it seemed.

“All right. I’ll come. I don’t know about staying, but I’ll come for dinner.”

Will wanted to stay, of course, but despite knowing that Hannibal could likely see through everything about him, he wanted to give the least desperate impression possible. Will could almost _hear_ Hannibal’s smile through the phone.

“Excellent.”

Satisfied with his progress—to have Will think about anything but his visions, even if it was just plans for dinner on his mind, was progress—Hannibal lifted himself from his chair in the study for the first time since answering Will’s phone call earlier that evening and drifted silently, ghostlike, down the hallways to his bedroom. As he laid down in his own bed, phone still to his ear, he smiled at the sound of rustling fabric from Will’s end. The sharp, slickness of the sound followed by the screech of a zipper told Hannibal that Will had resorted to his poor man’s straightjacket after all—a sleeping bag.

“Maybe, if you spend the weekend here, you won’t have to worry about such things.”

Though frustrated, Will made himself comfortable and struggled to keep his cell phone to his ear in the cramped confines of the sleeping bag. “And why wouldn’t I have to? It doesn’t matter where I sleep—here, the office—it always happens.”

Hannibal closed his eyes and breathed out a sigh through his nose.

“It won’t when I’m watching over you.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With every conversation Will and Hannibal share, more and more truths about their feelings for each other are revealed. Tiny slips of the tongue and a daring analysis from Will reminds Hannibal that the FBI Academy professor has a great amount of potential as a friend and possibly more, but that the doctor cannot yet throw caution to the wind when the tables are suddenly turned during Will's evening appointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to EllipsisObsessed for pointing out the slight error in my title! It's been changed now so that it's more accurate to what I was hoping for it to convey.
> 
> Enjoy the third chapter, everyone, and don't forget to let me know what you think!

It was always strangely pleasant to Hannibal when he opened the door to his waiting room to see Will standing there, hands in his pockets and shuffling his feet. Will never sat in the waiting room, despite the comfortable chairs placed there just for that purpose, and he wasn’t sure if it was due to nervousness or rather some uncanny eagerness to throw himself into Dr. Lecter’s office as soon as possible. It was really no mystery that Will enjoyed the conversations he had in that room. Hannibal did, too. When it was just the two of them, pacing back and forth, bouncing ideas off the other, trading knowledge, scanning Hannibal’s extensive library for a hint or clue they didn’t have before—

It was open.

In the lecture hall, in Jack Crawford’s office, anywhere within the walls of the FBI Academy or the morgue or the Behavioral Division, Will did not feel at home. Hell, he barely felt at home _in_ his home, as of late. Hannibal’s office, on the other hand, was more secure. There was something about the freedom he felt in that room and with Hannibal, something about the two glasses and bottle of expensive wine the doctor had grown fond of keeping out for Will’s visits, and something about the psychiatrist himself that made Will feel better. The instant he spoke to Hannibal of the day’s trials, it was as if they no longer mattered and were harbored in his heart no more, instead set free to the air of Hannibal’s office where they disappeared into the redness of the wine and the dark shading of the doctor’s sketches.

“How was the sleeping bag?”

“Well, I’m looking forward to not sleeping in it tonight.”

A trace of a smile ghosted Hannibal’s lips.

“The sweating was worse, because I was closed in.”

“You don’t like being closed in.”

Will blinked, and his answer was almost vehement in its rapidity. “No, of course not.”

Hannibal nodded once. “That’s understandable. Most people would agree with you, I imagine. There is a reason why there are phobias related to small or enclosed spaces.”

Watching Will pace about the room as he so often did, occasionally lifting his glass to his lips to take a sip larger than perhaps was necessary, Hannibal waited for a reply. When he received nothing, it was time to continue his analysis.

“Is that how you feel when you’re around Jack Crawford? Or re-imagining a crime scene?”

“Is what how I feel?”

“Enclosed. Trapped.”

“I-I don’t know,” Will said, the stammer in his voice unmistakable. Hannibal knew he had found something important, then.

He continued in his usual demeanor—calm, relaxed and, if Will didn’t know better, almost apathetic. “Perhaps what you need is freedom, Will. Freedom from these things that haunt you at night. Freedom from these murders and the killers who made them happen. You have nightmares about them and wake up the next day with no escape, no choice but to face them again with your waking eyes, again and again.”

Will offered no response until a heavy sigh escaped his lips. He approached Hannibal’s desk, placed his glass upon the mahogany wood, and distracted himself by staring at one of the doctor’s most recent drawings. Hannibal may have been right. Why didn’t Will quit when Jack gave him the chance?

Terrifying visions flashed through his mind, visions of the victims he investigated and visions of all the people who, if not for Will helping to catch the bastards who had killed them, would be just as brutally murdered as the ones who had already been lost. It hurt to think about those who, if not for him, would suffer. It almost, _almost_ made his own suffering worth it.

Almost.

“I can’t quit, Hannibal.”

The sound of Hannibal’s name as it echoed through the room made the psychiatrist’s head turn, wine glass held motionless halfway to his mouth.

Since when did Will address him as such? It was rare that he even called him “Dr. Lecter,” but to use his first name so freely? So personally?

“I can’t quit, and you know it. The thoughts of what I could prevent would haunt me more than I’m haunted now. You’re a doctor. You understand what it feels like to _need_ to help people. That’s why you left surgery. Because you were afraid of _not_ being able to save a patient. You said it felt like killing them, when they died under your knife, even if it wasn’t your fault.”

_So you think it is your turn to do the psychoanalyzing._

Hannibal grimaced and gazed up at Will through his eyelashes, an expression that might have been menacing to most but affected Will no more than a sad look from one of his dogs. He was not afraid of offending Dr. Lecter, especially when he knew his words to be true.

“You know I’m right. You know _exactly_ how I feel because we’re the same, that way.”

It was Hannibal’s turn for silence.

“Aren’t we?”

The doctor took a deep breath, using the time to carefully consider his words, before letting it back out again through his nose.

“What else do you think about me, Will? Since we’re already talking about me.”

Hannibal’s question caught the younger man by surprise, but by this time he was thoroughly calloused to the idea of shock. In that way, too, he and Hannibal were the same—detached—although Will was not nearly as detached as he wanted to be.

“I don’t know, Dr. Lecter.” Back to formality. “I don’t know.  I didn’t mean what I said to be offensive. I was only trying to—“

“I know what you were trying to do, Will, and you’ve done nothing wrong. But I believe this could be good for us, good for our relationship. I’m curious about what other opinions you hold about me. I am always the one doing the psychoanalyzing. It’s your turn.”

Will lifted his hands in frustration, his mouth opening with no words coming out. He was stuck. What did Hannibal want him to say? He had already tread such a thin line, and now this?

“Come, Will, you’re a professor. You may not hold a degree in criminal psychology but I would wager that you know more about it than half of the people you work with. You’re well-learned in the behavioral sciences. What does my behavior tell you about me?”

Hannibal knew it was the perfect opportunity to ask. His eyes were locked on Will with the ferocity of a lion and the gentleness of a lamb. If Will suspected anything about Hannibal’s _unorthodox_ habits, he would show it in his body language—the way he shifted his feet, the way his eyes moved, the way he breathed—

As Will stammered out some pseudo-analysis to satisfy the doctor’s request, Hannibal knew that Will remained clueless. He wouldn’t forever, but that was all right. As long as Hannibal was in control of how and when the secrets came out, it didn’t matter. He _wanted_ Will to find out someday, but he wanted him to find out when he was _ready_. Already, Will was steering in that direction, or rather losing control and careening dangerously there.

There was a time when Will would be ready, likely even _accepting_ , and that was what Hannibal wanted.

Will Graham was someone he cared viciously for and wanted to protect. Will Graham was not a man whose friendship Hannibal wanted to lose due to the discovery of his habits. For the first time in his life, Hannibal had found someone deserving of knowing his secrets and sharing in them, and he would not let such an opportunity slip from his hands so easily.

Without warning, Hannibal stood from his chair and, with great relish, swallowed the last of his wine. “I believe our hour is up, Will.”

Will stopped what he was saying midsentence, incredulous. “I think that’s the first time you’ve ever interrupted me, doctor.”

“Well, I suppose there is a first time for everything, isn’t there?” Hannibal replied, gathering his overcoat and scarf from a hook by the office door.

“I thought you wanted me to analyze you. That’s what I was doing.”

When the doctor turned back around to look at Will, eyes gleaming in a way Will wasn’t sure he had ever noticed before, he looked almost— _happy_.

“And I would be happy to continue our conversation, but—“ He paused to glance at his watch. “—it is nearly half past eight and there are much more important things at hand.”

Will blinked. _More important?_ Was Hannibal _bored_ with him? The thought was almost offensive in its unfamiliarity, its rudeness. “Like what? What’s more important than—“

Hannibal really did smile then, a full, genuine and toothy smile that was somehow both shocking and comforting to Will. “You haven’t forgotten, have you? I’m having you for dinner, Will. You had planned on staying the evening. A different environment may reduce your nightmares.”

“No, of course I hadn’t forgotten. I mean, I did, but it was only because I was so intent on what we were discussing that it left my mind.”

“You still want to, I presume?”

Will’s smile was hesitant and uncertain, but it was honest. A night with Dr. Lecter would prove to be interesting in the best of ways, and Will knew that he needed the escape more than he would admit to himself. In a moment, his coat, too, was in hand, and Hannibal was shutting off the lights to the office and ushering Will out into the waiting room.

“So, what’s for dinner, Hannibal?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for sticking with me so far! I've never received so many hits and kudos on a work before, and I'm truly appreciative of everyone who is reading and enjoying this fic.
> 
> Keep being awesome, Fannibals!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both Will and Hannibal are hesitant to offer each other their trust, but when Hannibal brings Will home for dinner alone after their Friday evening appointment, their intimacy reaches new and unexpected heights in the kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who commented, subscribed, and bookmarked!
> 
> In response to Weslyn's suggestion regarding limiting my perspective, I tried writing this chapter in limited third person POV from Hannibal's perspective versus the omniscient third person POV I've been using in the previous chapters. The changes in style are subtle, but I'm enjoying the opportunity to develop my style and skills through this fic.
> 
> I found myself fangirling a good bit while writing this, so I hope the chapter has the same effect on you!

The few times that Hannibal had visited Will’s home had told him that the man either knew nothing about cooking or had no interest in a unique and varied diet. There had been extremely limited ingredients with which to prepare a meal in the tiny kitchen, and there seemed to be more dog food around the house than sustenance of any kind for Will.

“You’re welcome to assist me in the kitchen or otherwise make yourself at home, Will. The bedroom is up the stairs and to the left, if you’d like to set your bag in there or wash up before you eat.”

Will nervously shifted his weight from one foot to the other and slung his overnight bag off his shoulder. To anyone else, he would have given the appearance of being uncomfortable in the psychiatrist’s home, but Hannibal knew Will better. He was fidgety by nature, and likely hadn’t taken his evening medication yet. He could have been plagued with a headache or dizziness—Will’s symptoms were plentiful and varied.

“Are you all right, Will?”

Like a deer in the headlights, the man became still upon hearing Hannibal’s question. He looked up, startled, his eyes wide behind his plastic-rimmed glasses, but Hannibal met the frightened gaze with one that was equally calming and reassuring.

When Will nodded once, a jerking motion that looked almost more like a tic than an affirmation, Hannibal grinned.

With one careful hand, he reached out to firmly grasp Will’s shoulder. Feeling the warmth of another person beneath his fingers was strange when lacking the murderous context Hannibal was so accustomed to, but the immediate disappearance of Will’s nervous tremor and the comfort that it brought to Hannibal’s own mind made the unusual extension of his personal bubble worthwhile.

“If you’d like to rest, I understand. Take a hot shower if you need, or pour yourself a glass of wine. Relax. I’ll call you when dinner is ready.”

Will smiled and nodded again in response, and Hannibal could sense the tired appreciation in Will’s eyes. He waited until his guest had disappeared up the elegant staircase before retreating to his beloved kitchen to pick a recipe and begin the preparation of his ingredients. It was nice to have another person in his home with the knowledge that Will wouldn’t be leaving once the dessert was gone and the last of the wine polished off. Hannibal rarely, rarely admitted it to himself, but he was lonely, even when other guests joined him for dinner or acquaintances visited with him after the opera. None of those guests were anything like Will, or anything like _Hannibal_ , for that matter. To have this man in his home, someone Hannibal trusted and desired closeness to, was satisfying.

As he plucked a card from his treasured recipe box, Hannibal reflected upon what _else_ he desired. Will’s friendship was, of course, the obvious answer, but now that they were alone in this house, surrounded by privacy and the prospect of an entire night—no, a weekend—alone, Hannibal found himself warm with curiosity about the possibility of other more _intimate_ pursuits.

 _How would Will react to such a thing?_ Hannibal wondered, fingers peeling away layers of plastic wrap to reach the cool smoothness of the meat underneath. As the tips of his fingers pushed into the moist, uncooked muscle, juices reddened with blood rose to the surface and leaked onto the cutting board, and the light yet jarring smell of raw flesh met his nostrils.  Fresh.

_Delicious._

“Dr. Lecter?”

Hannibal’s lips twitched into a smirk, but he didn’t turn from his work seasoning two healthy-sized chunks of meat.

“This is home, not my office. Formalities aren’t necessary here.”

Hannibal heard something that could have been either a sigh or a suppressed laugh through Will’s nose.

“The bedroom on the left looked like yours—I left my things there, anyway, but—“

“It is mine,” Hannibal replied with nonchalance. The oven buzzed, a light pleasant sound that rang throughout the kitchen with the promise of a delicious meal, to alert Hannibal that it was heated to his specified temperature. He bent down to slide the pan of meat, spices, and vegetable garnish into the heat of the oven, fully-aware of Will’s gaze resting solely on him.

“I can’t keep an eye on you tonight if you’re asleep in another room.”

Will blinked. “Right.”

Hannibal handed a bowl and whisk to Will, inclining his head as if to say, “Stir, while you’re here.”

“Does the idea disturb you, Will?”

“The idea of what?” Will’s question sounded bland, likely due to his excessive concentration on whisking whatever sauce Hannibal had mixed into the bowl now in his hands.

With a raised eyebrow, Hannibal looked up from his own preparations with amusement gleaming in his eyes. “Sleeping together, of course.”

No reply except the slick noise of the metallic whisk against the sides of the bowl. After a few moments—“No. As long as I’m not intruding on your space.”

“Oh, William, I have too much space.” There was a slight laugh in Hannibal’s statement. “Having some company to help me fill it is lovely.” With a murmured “thank you,” Hannibal took the bowl from Will’s hands, his fingers brushing briefly against the agent’s, and expertly poured the sauce into a pan which he placed on the stovetop to simmer.

“William?” Will repeated the name with shock in his voice.

“Is that not your full name? William Graham?”

The way the name rolled off his tongue pleased Hannibal to no end. He could see himself using it in conversation more often, if Will would permit it.

Will swallowed a lump in his throat, and the doctor couldn’t keep his eyes off the way Will’s Adams’ apple bobbed up and down. He found himself wondering what it would taste like to close his lips over the juncture between Will’s neck and shoulder, to move his mouth along Will’s neck and trace the pulsing veins there to feel the rush of blood beneath the slide of his tongue—

“It is. I can’t remember the last time someone’s called me William, though.”

“It’s a strong name. A pleasant name. You don’t mind if I use it, on occasion?”

Will shook his head and the ghost of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. “No, I suppose not.”

“Excellent. Now, sweet or tangy for dessert?”

Will had taken to his usual nervous habits again, though he didn’t seem as tense or uncomfortable as he had been on walking into the door. He slipped about through Hannibal’s kitchen and peered at cookbooks, let his vision linger on the shine of the wine glasses and the fine china stacked neatly on the counter and ready to be placed on the table when it was set for two.

“Sweet, I believe,” he answered.

“Then how about a nice _croquembouche_?”

“I don’t know French, Hannibal.”

“A caramel-glazed cream puff. Simultaneously light and filling, and we can make them as sweet as you’d like.”

Will turned in his place to stare at Hannibal, his sleeves rolled up and white apron tied around his waist. “We?”

“Yes, you’re going to help me, of course. Honestly, what did you expect when you chose to come back down to the kitchen? To only watch? I’m going to teach you something so that you can learn to feed yourself on nights when you’re alone at home.”

Will frowned and ran a hand through his brunette curls, then shook his head and removed his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

Hannibal, meanwhile, was already bustling himself about the kitchen like the expert he was, gathering ingredients into the same spot on the counter and checking the dinner already in the oven and on the stove. “Tell me, good Will, have you ever made bread? Or any kind of dough?” He motioned for Will to come closer to the counter where he stood, and the man sauntered across the kitchen with uncertainty and hesitance.

“It’s been a long time. I don’t remember how, at all.”

“Well, I promise it’s not difficult. Watch carefully so you can do it by yourself the next time.”

Just as Hannibal asked, Will followed every movement of the psychiatrist’s hands with rapt attention, even asking questions every now and then. If Hannibal didn’t know better, Will was trying to _impress_ him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if that was truly the case. On heat, off heat, stir vigorously, let cool for two minutes, a _wooden_ spoon, not a metal one, transfer to a ceramic bowl, let cool for five minutes but no more.

“How do you remember this?”

Hannibal laughed at Will’s incredulity. The sound was a pleasant one, lighter and different from his usual derisive sniffs. Hannibal was showing a side of himself that he rarely displayed, a side which he wasn’t even fully aware of himself. He wondered momentarily if he trusted Will _too_ much, forced himself to remember that, as much as Will had the potential to be like him, he wasn’t. Yet.

“Practice, William, only lots of practice. But you know as well as I that a photographic memory does help the process along.” Hannibal retrieved two spoons from their places in a drawer and presented them to Will, one in each hand. “Now, you’re going to roll the dough into balls with these and place them on the pan to bake. Once you practice once or twice, you’ll be able to roll the rest with ease.”

Will opened his mouth as he took the spoons, likely in an attempt to object, but Hannibal would have none of it as he moved to stand behind Will and reach around him to take each hand in his own.

“What are you—“

“Relax, I’m going to help you for the first one. The balls of dough will be smoother and rounder if you move your wrist like this when you’re scooping the dough from the bowl—“

Time seemed to slow as Hannibal directed Will’s movements and relished the way the agent’s hands moved beneath his. With every twitch of Will’s hand, Hannibal could feel the pulsing of Will’s veins, the muscles and bones of his fingers sliding back and forth in an elegant dance, and it was nothing short of beautiful. He rested his chin near Will’s shoulder, murmuring gentle instructions in his ear so that Will could feel the warmth of Hannibal’s breath against the sensitive skin of his ear, and breathed in deeply the smell of Will’s aftershave.

He still hadn’t changed it, even after Hannibal’s suggestion.

Even after helping Will form the first two of the balls of dough, Hannibal showed no intention of removing himself from his position pressed against Will’s back.

The contact was nice, he had to admit, and it was pleasing that Will hadn’t made any move to inch away—Hannibal wasn’t sure if he could, even if he tried, as he was pinned rather thoroughly between Hannibal’s body and the countertop. Will’s pulse had not increased out of fear, discomfort, or nervousness, and instead, as Hannibal continued to listen intently to Will’s breaths, it seemed that the younger man was actually relaxing in Hannibal’s grasp instead of tensing up as Hannibal had expected him to.

“Is this how you teach everyone to cook?” Will’s voice was quiet, as if he was afraid to break the tranquility that had fallen over the pair and their newfound intimacy.

“No, but then again, I rarely teach anyone my techniques. Otherwise, everyone would throw dinner parties as extravagant as mine.”

Will laughed through his nose and shook his head as he more skillfully formed his fifth ball of dough and used the second spoon to push it onto the baking pan. “I doubt that, Hannibal.”

The doctor smiled against Will’s neck and removed his hands from the other man’s, letting his fingers trail briefly up Will’s forearms before removing them entirely and stepping back from his guest altogether. “You’re doing fine, Will. Remember to keep them spaced farther apart—they’ll expand in the oven.”

Will nodded, his concentration remaining on the task in front of him, though Hannibal couldn’t help but wonder where Will’s thoughts may have been wandering to. He wondered if Will’s mind was in as much turmoil as his own—or rather, if Will was experiencing the same _type_ of turmoil. It was really no mystery whether or not Will was deep in thought about something, but the real question was the topic of his thoughts, which could just as easily have been centered around brutal murders instead of his and Hannibal’s close encounter.

Hannibal supposed the real victory was Will’s calmness. He had partly expected someone as skittish as Will to have tensed or struggled away instinctively—instead, the man’s reaction had been the exact opposite, and the remembrance of how the muscles of Will’s back had so willingly formed to Hannibal’s body had a pool of warm content pooling in the pit of Hannibal’s stomach.

Was will finally returning the trust which Hannibal had so reluctantly bestowed upon him?

Slowly but surely Hannibal felt that he was transforming Will into an alternative version of himself. The change was slow but steady, and oh-so-satisfying. Every step forward was a small battle won, and when Will commented on how good the main course (a human heart, as fate would have it) smelled as Hannibal pulled it out of the oven, the doctor knew that there were many more victories to be had.


End file.
